


The Oviparan

by Val Mora (valmora)



Series: The Oviparan [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depressing, M/M, Mpreg, Slavery, coerced sex, helmsman!Sollux, implied coerced Dualscar/Eridan, implied food issues, implied weight issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Oviparan is cycled to yet another Helmsman (they could have pretended they did not know each other, but what would have been the point?).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oviparan

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted anonymously [here](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/15949.html?thread=31776333#t31776333) at the Homesmut KM. The prompt was for Eridan (or Dualscar) being a very rare type of sea-troll who could lay eggs fertilized by another troll, without the input of the Mother Grub, and being used for "breeding stock."

who are you? asks the text on the panel next to the helmsman's capsule. Eridan closes his eyes, reaches out. The helmsman's skin is warm under his fingertips.

"I'm the Oviparan," Eridan says, choking on the title, even after ten sweeps of service.

"Oh," sighs the helmsman, this time with his mouth. He reaches a hand up to take hold of Eridan's wrist, though his body's mismatched eyes still haven't focused on Eridan. This helmsman's a newer model, his physical body intact except for the cable plugged into the back of his neck. He's kept in a nutritive slime tank, which is only half-full, now that it's night. "You aren't what I expected."

"Hard ta expect a prettier face than this," Eridan says, and the helmsman laughs like it hurts. He's so thin. There used to be something to him – heaviness in the stomach, flesh to his face. The thinnest wrists Eridan had ever seen. He remembers having thought, _That dirtsucker's never used a weapon in his life, the Crosshairs'd break his wrists, look at 'em,_ and now he's thin, thin unto bone.

Eridan had been jealous of him, once.

"What happens if I say no?" asks the helmsman.

"Then I get punished," Eridan says. "You want that, you hunk of metal?"

The helmsman's eyes blink, once, and squint blearily at Eridan. "I'll be making more of me," he says carefully. "More of _me_."

Eridan hasn't been this cold for a cycle-pailing since his first time, with the other Oviparan (if he knew the other Oviparan, knew the cant of his hips and the breadth of his hands and the smell of him, the color of his blood, then Eridan has forgotten it, has pushed it down until all he remembers is that it hurt, that first breaching that was never meant to be, and that he threw up afterwards, sick with being full, being someone else's pail).

"Yes," he says, and brushes his fingers over the base of one of the helmsman's double horns.

The helmsman reaches up, slowly, his arm shaking, the muscles long gone, and brushes his fingers through Eridan's hair, over the wave of one horn.

"Eridan," he says, finally.

"Ain't my name." Eridan shifts his hand back down, running it down the helmsman's neck, over his shoulder.

"It's on your fucking record," the helmsman says. "It's not your name like I didn't used to have a name besides _SS Valiancecution_."

"The captain call you Valiance, then?" Eridan asks, half-smiling. The helmsman laughs, bitter as brine, his hand falling from Eridan's hair, leaving smears of nutrient slime behind on his cheek. Eridan wonders if the helmsman, too, aches to have an adult name of his own choosing.

"So what happened to being the best captain in the fleet, being so good you could request me just to break down my little lowblood pretensions?"

"Sollux," he says, and then shuts his mouth over the name he didn't mean to say.

"Like I want this horror show to last," Sollux says. He doesn't even lisp anymore. Probably took him nights, maybe as much as a perigee. He's got time, now, in his little capsule near the helm. Why put him near the captain when the microphones can relay the captain's orders better than his body's ears? Sollux is a top-of-the-line piece of bioware, with the Condesce's mark branded into his wrist to show that he's under Her lifetime warranty.

"You oughta know that I'm enough of a gentleman to-"

"I don't want it to feel good."

And to think that for a moment he _pitied_ the arrogant little meatsack. "Well, if that's how you want it," Eridan spits, standing and shedding his cloak of office, his shirt, his shoes. The equipment that keeps Sollux biologically stable was removed before the visit, as was all his clothing. 

Once he's naked, he climbs into the tank, kneeling over Sollux's hips. Sollux's twin bulges (long long long ago in a meteor tunneled through with fluorescent-bright metal he once twice a few times fantasized about that double-bulge, about digging his claws and teeth into this skin, about making Sollux _his_ and pressing hot and pitch-black against him in his command of this helm, this hunk of metal that should have been his own) are half-unsheathed, slick with nutritive slime, and he grits his teeth against the pain and sits on them both at once.

Traitorous fucking body _wants_ to be used as a pail. Likes it.

He rocks up and down a few times, feeling Sollux unsheathe into him, and hates that it feels good, the stretch and his own growing wetness, looking down and seeing streaks of purple beginning to run into the slime.

He curls his claws against Sollux's thorax and closes his eyes and fucks himself on Sollux, the only thing he's useful for now. For servicing those who have a purpose, trying to make more of them. The Mother Grub can't guarantee any grubs from a given pair's contributions, but from him – from him, they can have five, maybe as many as ten, grubs from Sollux. Every one of them potentially with the power to bend space ahead of a starship's prow.

(His third cycle was with an older-model Helmsman, an orangeblood, and every single damned one of the grubs is destined for the helm. Eridan's handler cooed over and petted him in a sick mockery of moirallegiance, and said that with a few more sweeps and if his cycles with Helmsmen always bred true, he could make the Condesce a fleet, such an honor, so much glory.)

Sollux moans, softly, and touches Eridan's thighs. Eridan lets him. It's not like Sollux has enough muscle to control any of this –

And then a static crackle of power presses against his back, pushing him forwards, until his elbows are to either side of Sollux's head, and Sollux tilts up to kiss him, mouth lowblood-warm. He tastes dank, and his tongue is weak from disuse, what with never talking and normally being fed through his skin and a tube in his stomach.

The kiss ends very quickly, and Sollux turns his head aside, cheek pressing against Eridan's, and laughs.

"What I always wanted," he says sarcastically, and a phantom touch curls at the back of Eridan's neck.

It doesn't get better. Usually Eridan starts enjoying things halfway through despite himself, but this time, no. And it seems to take forever before Sollux curls his fingers around Eridan's wrist, weak as a grub, and says, "You don't have to."

"Don't be an idealist," Eridan spits. "It's no fuckin' thing that the man in the box with a ship licking at his brain should be feelin'."

Sollux smiles, gasps. Comes, in waves, inside Eridan, who stills. The trouble is that it still feels good.

(During the game, he'd dreamed of cycling with Sollux – Sollux as he could have been, the brains behind the Fleet's computers, corporeal body free and strong, the nerd-in-chief on Eridan's ship. They would have gotten drunk on the darkness between them and every one of the grubs from his cycles would have been horrible little psychic bluebloods, cunning girls and boys quick to rage, and he wouldn't have _minded_ being swollen with Sollux's get.)

Eridan pulls off when Sollux is done, feeling raw and open, and dresses. There are trails of yellow on the insides of his thighs, no surprise. He smears them dry with the base of his palm. Keeps his chin up as he goes to the door of the little room.

The panel by the side of the door says 2ee you agaiin 2omeday and Eridan, even knowing the truth of it, doesn't look back, doesn't react as he presses the button to open the door.


End file.
